Here is Gone
Summary: A nun prays for a miracle... Novice Hame, Pre-Gridlock.
A/N: Yet another teensy ficlette. It's all I seem to be able to come up with these days. Anyway, this is written for another RPG LJ journal, and as a New New Fan, I thought I'd give the Doctor Who fandom a whirl. Enjoy!
An embarrassingly familiar scent. That's the first thing she notices each time she steps outside. That vulgar sweetness of apple grass was stronger than she remembers. It was almost visible to the eye, seeping from the ground in a wet, bilious mist from the wildly grown turf. And yet she breathes deeply, savouring the fragrance and the privilege that came with it.
Autumn was nearing its end for the seventh time since ... the incident. The winds on the bank of the river beside the destitute city of New New York were unseasonably frigid, bringing with them the biting chill of the impending winter and the promise of draping the now naked world. The bleached, colourless cotton of her skirts swatted at her ankles, her veil hugging her neck. A warning. As palpable as if some nameless person were holding a knife there.
She trembles. The nip of winter is only a secondary explanation. Looking out and across the equally shivering river, she stares at the rippling, distorted face of the hollow city behind her. It was frowning. Sorrowful.
"He'll talk to a wanderer. The man without a home."
Again, those softly spoken words flutter from her lips and drift across the water. The remains of a legend left only for the river to hear.
"Doctor, come quickly," she appeals quietly, the prayer nearly lost in the orchestra of water and air. Her eyes travel to the gloved hands she has clasped in front of her, unwilling to meet the gaze of New New York's lamenting reflection. "Hope can only persist for so long."
She looks to the sky then, its colour that of milk. Fresh and cold. Poured out among the bodies of murky clouds.
"Hurry."
Her voice scrapes out and is handed to the water like it's all that remains of her. Perhaps it is.